


Bearable Christmas

by britishbossy



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6086485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britishbossy/pseuds/britishbossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas and the Holmes boys are ordered home. Clara Oswald joins them and in the middle of preparations, decorating and cooking unspoken feelings flare up between Mycroft and her (set in His Last Vow). Myclara (Mycroft Holmes x Clara Oswald) for X-mas! This one is set AFTER "Night Visions".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

How could it only be 15 o'clock?

Mycroft sighed. The Watsons had agreed to join them for Christmas Eve, around half past seven. He was hoping that his mother would put all her attention towards the doctor and his pregnant wife then. But until now Mrs. Holmes was busy cleaning the house, preparing dinner and what's worse: talking to her sons. While their father had fled into the garden, preparing firewood, Sherlock sat in the corner hidden in his mind palace. His younger brother had always been good at suffering in silence, while he found himself complaining about his situation over and over again. He really hated Christmas!

"Behave, Myc!", spat his mother for the third time in one hour and he knew he deserved it. He swallowed his answer, surely it would lead to a dispute. And he wouldn't want to annoy his mother on Christmas. With a look to his brother he decided to join him in silence. It would be for the best.

He hated it. He hated the days he had to stay away from work. No one but him could lead this country and within a few hours everything could break apart. He remembered last year when he had to save England from a couple of fools. He hated the fact that his parents actually cared if he spent those days on his own. Why couldn't they see that he _wanted_ to be alone? Just because Sherlock had nearly died this year their parents broke out in panic and sentiment.

Honestly he was a grown man! The most powerful man in England...and ordered home for Christmas by his mother. Mycroft sighed again and rolled up his shirtsleeves, he was getting a headache and the kitchen was filled with the smell of meat, onions and fresh bread, he hated it. He hated it all!

He had just closed his eyes as Clara Oswald entered the kitchen, carrying pieces of wood in her arms, according to the smell that invaded his nose suddenly. He looked up. She wore her red check wrap skirt, black tights, a black cardigan and a bright smile on her face. She was helping his father in the garden, her cheeks pink from the cold. The wind had messed up her dark hair and some snowflakes had landed in it.

"Hey, what's wrong with you guys?", she greeted the Holmes brothers sitting in silence. She could tell that Sherlock had drifted off to his mind palace while Mycroft's face looked like he had just been sentenced to death. Obviously he counted the seconds he'd left to stay at his parent's house. Whishing Christmas was already over so he could return to his life in London, his work and his beloved lonliness. After laying the wood down infront of the oven, she stood next to him almost placing her hand upon his shoulder to comfort him but decided against it. She had touched him before, of course, several times actually and vice versa but never in front of his family. Especially not in front of his younger brother. Maybe Mycroft wouldn't want her to. In fact, she had no idea what he might do if she did.

" _There is a big chance he would shoot you"_ , Sherlock had once pointed out and Clara wasn't sure if her best friend had only made some sort of joke or not. Even John couldn't always tell. He and Mary would arrive in the evening, which made her smile grow a little bit. She liked the Watsons. Two people who had no problem in showing that they liked someone. "You are thinking about John and his wife."

It was not a question. It was a statement and it had come from Mycroft who'd turned his head. "Yes", she nodded. "Nothing's wrong with thinking about someone that you like." His eyes were searching hers but she couldn't tell what he hoped to find there. As if he was asking. Asking for something she didn't understand.

"Would you two now stop the eye thing?", came the interruption from Sherlock. He blinked as if he'd just woken up from a dream. Clara looked at him.

"What eye thing?", she asked and felt her heart beat speat up. Somehow she felt caught.

"We're not doing an ... eye thing." She did her best not to look at Mycroft who sighed in annoyment. "You are devouring each other with your eyes that's what I mean!", Sherlock spat and made a face. "It's disgusting! Stop it!"

And before Clara could say anything, Mycroft stood up and grabbed his jacket. "I will be out for a smoke", he snarrled.

"You better stay outside!", Sherlock called after him as the door was slammed shut. In the next moment Mrs. Holmes appeared in the doorframe. "What are you doing, again?", she asked in an annoyed tone. Then her eyes fell on Clara. "Oh dear, were the boys rude to you? Sherlock, what have you done this time?". Her son lowered his folded hands.

"It was Mycroft!". His mother wanted to say something but Clara cut in. "It was only a misunderstanding", she explained. "I'll go after him."

She gave Sherlock a meanful look and he raised his brows in return, looking all innocent. "Oh, thanks, dear", Mrs. Holmes smiled. "I wouldn't know what I'd do with the boys without you this year". Clara shook her head politely. "Nah," she said. "That would be John".

She had decided to spend Christmas at Holmes' this year because Sherlock had asked her to. He'd never admit it but since John's wedding he seemed to feel alone. He'd even taken her out more than once and it had not always been about a case. He would call her sometimes, or sending her messages to come at once and the only thing he really wanted was to talk. Although he never said much. Sherlock just needed to know that somebody was there with him. So she was. Since she had stopped visiting Mycroft at Sunday afternoons, it was a welcoming variety. Clara looked at the younger Holmes once more only to see his eyes narrow at her before she left the kitchen.

His lungs burned. He hadn't had a smoke for too long. But now he needed it. The whole situation was driving him mad and now unfortunately Sherlock had found his language again.

He hated it. Why couldn't they all just shut up and leave him alone?

His eyes wandered around the fields. Out here there was nothing but the sound of the wind. The snowflakes danced around him landing on his face, his hands, melting on his warm skin. It was silent, almost peaceful. Slowly, he calmed down and looked at his watch. Only ten minutes had passed since his last check. This couldn't be true! He heard the door opened and slowly closed behind him. It couldn't be his mother, she would've pulled and slammed it. Sherlock would've left it open carelessly. It must've been Clara.

Mycoft didn't move, listening to the careful steps of hers through the snow. She stood next to him, following his gaze into nowhere. She hugged herself, shivering the slightest bit because she wasn't wearing anything above her blouse and cardigan. - _Still unable to dress properly in winter_

"I'm sure he didn't mean it", she stated convincely. The wind blew the smoke of his cigarette towards her and she tried to hide a cough behind her closed lips. He dropped it immediatly, stepped on it, covered it with snow. In the next moment he wondered why he had done it. Why did he even care?

"Sherlock means everything he says to me", he answered, still not looking at her.

"What is the matter with you two?", she asked looking up at him. "Why is it so hard for you to get along even on Christmas?". He could feel her gaze burning on him. She had seen the disputes between him and his brother more than once. She knew they hadn't the best relationship. She had noticed the tension between them. "We have too much history", was all he could say. But he knew she wouldn't be satisfied. She never was until she learned the truth.

"Oh, come on, Mycroft. There must be a reason.". Yes, there was. There were many. "Why do you not ask my dear brother?", he returned finally looking down at her, his arms folded. "Since you are his number one after John he will be greatfully answering your questions.". With that he turned to walk back into the house but her hand shot out holding him back on his arm gently. So gentle as she was.

"I'm asking you", she said calmly, her eyes clearly filled with worry. "If I asked Sherlock I would get a number of insulting names for your person. Something I know you wouldn't do." _Clever girl._

She looked up at him, giving him a careful smile as if not to scare him off.

"You're his brother. You love him. And I know that there's a part of him that feels...quite the same way" Sherlock had come up with the idea of bringing Clara Oswald for Christmas only two days ago. And here she was, tempting him with those yearning warm eyes of hers, making him melt inside with a smile that could bring a government to its knees. Something or someone had to get him out of here now or he would drown in her very sight as he found himself considering a very big mistake.

_She is Sherlock's friend,_ he thought. _She is here for Sherlock and for him alone._

Since Sherlock was back, it had been this way. It was supposed to be this way. Maybe she was in love with his brother, Mycroft didn't know. But there was a certain chance that he was right. He'd never claimed to understand feelings especially not those of Clara Oswald.

So he dropped his gaze, freeing his arm carefully from her hand and walked back inside leaving the school teacher in the middle of flowting snowflakes. He felt like someone had parked a car across his chest.

Clara watched him go and wondered briefly if there had been concern in his eyes the moment he'd looked at her. Since Sherlock was back, Mycroft had been distant to her, more than ever, actually. And she didn't know why. Instead of staying frozen she didn't hesitate any longer and followed him back inside. It was cold and Mrs. Holmes needed her help for Christmas dinner. The turkey had already found its way into the oven and now Violet was preparing a soufflé. "The soufflé isn't a soufflé..", she said to Clara and she ended the sentence: "..the soufflé is the recipe." She got a bright smile from the old lady. "How do you know this?", she asked. It seemed she had never heard it from anyone else before. Well, at least not from her sons. "My mother always said that", she explained. "So I tried it over and over again, but..." She looked down. "Oh, don't worry dear, I'll show you." Clara couldn't help but smile and felt her eyes filling with tears at the same time. It was especially on Christmas when she missed her mother the most. "But first would you be so kind to take care of the salad, dear?", Mrs. Holmes asked. "So many vegetables, so much to prepare and so less help", she growled in Sherlock's direction who was reading the news, greatly ignoring his mother's words. "You know, they always do that, the boys.", she wispered to Clara. And then louder: "One day they'll be thankful!". Clara took a knife and began to cut a tomato. "I'm sure they are", she said. "They just don't show it." Right, they never did. Sherlock had somehow changed around John, Mary, Molly and her, being nicer and kinder, almost friendly. Now he'd nearly always smile at her when she came in sight. He hadn't done this before. Maybe he'd missed his friends, being away for two years. Two years could be a long time when you were lonely. Two years, she'd believed him dead. Two years, she'd been with his brother every Sunday night. Two years, the two of them had been dancing around each other. And now that Sherlock was back, it felt like they'd never actually met. Now Mycroft was withdrawing from her. She didn't understand why and even less why she felt so hurt, almost rejected by his actions.

Violet gave her a thankful smile. "Finally a girl who understands you", she said to her son. "Where is Myc, anyway?".

"Right here". Clara nearly jumped at the tone of his voice and cut herself with the knife. "Ouch!", she called out and reached for some kitchen paper as her index finger began to bleed. "Damn it!". She had just realised that the colour of blood was red when her vision suddenly changed into white and her ears began to roar. Clara heard her own heart beat and her breath flutter. Before she could even think of searching for a hold she felt herself vary only to feel Mycroft's solid chest against her back studding her. His voice seemed to her like a whisper: "Take a deep breath". She smelled his cologne , his voice so far away as in a dream."Breathe", he told her over and over. "Breathe". She closed her eyes, letting darkness surround her.

When she opened her eyes again, she found Sherlock next to her at the side of the couch on which she was laying. "Sherlock..", she began but he cut her off by raising his hand.

"You'll be fine", he stated. "You have a strong reaction towards blood as it turns out. Why didn't you ever mention that?" It sounded like an accusation what Clara knew actually to be worry. So she smiled at her friend.

"Well, I didn't know". She slowly pulled herself up again and blinked around. The older Holmes brother was leaning against the door frame, his hands folded and his face blank. "You have not eaten very well, you did not even have breakfast this morning", he stated without looking at her. "Hypoglycaemic, obviously", he added.

"Coffee", Sherlock said out of nowhere and stood up.

"You need a cup of coffee!" With that he left for the kitchen. Clara looked at the plaster around her finger raised a hand to her head when Mycroft spoke: "That little headache of yours will vanish soon. All you need is some energy." She looked at him. He hadn't moved.

"I am sorry", he said and she furrowed her eyebrows. "For startling you, I mean. It was never my intention to..." He was caught off by her laughter. "It's alright, Mycroft! It was an accident. It's not like I was badly injured or something." At that she thought to see a shadow upon his face. But it was gone as soon as it had appeared. The silence grew heavy between them. Suddenly she felt dizzy again, her eyes fluttered and she lay her head back down with a sigh. Mycroft was crouched down next to her on an instant, right there where Sherlock had been a few seconds ago, his warm hand touching her forehead. She opened her eyes to look at him and almost gasped. His face was pure concern. Concern for her.

"Take a deep breath in", she heard him order and she did. "And out", he went on quietly while his hand was wandering. The back of his fingers caressed her cheek down to her chin. It was the lightest touch, so gentle. Almost loving. However hard she tried she couldn't bring herself to look away from him and neither did he. Clara felt captured by his blue eyes which were scanning her as usual, trying to search her mind inside out. Her heart beat sped up again and her chest felt heavy. Violet's and Sherlock's voices distracted her, coming from the kitchen, something about the coffee filter and green tea with honey. She blinked, her eyes on the living room carpet. "Do you feel any better?", Mycroft asked her and she looked back at him, his concern slightly faded away but still present. She nodded in silence and let him lift her up by her hand. Sitting was alright, she almost felt normal again and followed his lead to stand up. They were standing close, closer than the past months with him making sure he would be able to catch her if she'd fall over again. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, trough his shirt, waistcoat and jacket. He looked professional as always. All politician. It almost felt like somewhen within these two years when Clara had become his first and only friend. When they'd been sitting together, having tea in silence, he'd learned about the Doctor and her past, she'd learned about him and his facade and had started to like him for who he really was. Only him without his distant Ice-man-armour. She still didn't understand why she was the only one to see this. The only one he let close enough to see him. They didn't like him, almost hated him. John, Sherlock, Lestrade. Even Mary who kept quiet about it most of the time went straight to the kitchen when Mycroft came around at Baker Street. If they could only see.

If they'd only believe her when she said he was a good man, probably one of best she'd ever known. Not even Mycroft himself would believe her. She looked into his eyes, considering that he'd read her already, smiling gently.

She would not give up on him. He could tell by the look in her eyes, showing him kindness, patience, concern and something stronger, maybe it was...affection. She had looked at him this way several times before and he remembered the first time when he'd recognised that look and what he had done in one sudden reaction. _Just for once._

He turned his head towards the kitchen, sure that his mother and Sherlock would keep up their discussion for a while. With her hand still in his, he walked past her, pulling her after him. He led them to the back door, walked straight through without looking back once. Clara followed him without another word, without hesitation, not trying to back off or free her hand from his grasp. The cold wind hit his face as they arrived behind the house. Mycroft walked past the first corner, the grass crunching beneath his feet and turned towards her. In one smooth motion he had her back pinned against the wall, his arms on either side of her head. She knew what he was doing. And she was waiting. Mycroft stared into her wide eyes before he leant in and captured her lips. She gasped silently but as soon as she could he felt her catch on and kissing him back. Her small hands came up to grab his collar and pulled him closer while he let his right arm slide around her waist. He felt her tongue against his and forgot how to breathe. His left hand still pressed against the wall was about to give way, his self control hanging by a thread. When her nails scratched his neck, he bit down her lip briefly. Scolding himself he kept his eyes shut tightly. He'd never intended to hurt her. He wished he could be gentle because she deserved it. But he could not. He had to be rough right now, taking as much as he could as long as she would let him. Those minutes were so precious and rare and he did not know if he could ever have them again. Holding Clara in his arms, kissing her, her perfume invading his nostrils, her hot breath in his mouth. Mycroft let his awareness shrink down to her lips and he knew he would rather die than live without this, without her.

She heard him growl against her lips as he went on making love to her mouth. Yes, that's what it felt like. This had nothing to do with their first gentle, almost chaste kiss they'd shared in her flat. This was different. It was wet, hungry, almost desperate. He pulled her closer by her waist and pressed her against the wall just the same. Clara felt light headed and let her fingers stroke his neck, as she got on her toes for better reach. She wanted him as close as possible, not minding the cold around her, for her stomach spread a heat across her skin that was about to burn her from inside. As her nails scratched over the back of his neck, he hissed between his teeth and bit her lip just lightly but he didn't stop her. The world tilted as his hands fell down her body, grapping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. She didn't care. Mycroft took her lips with all ravening passion. Like he wanted to eat her alive, devour her completely. There was something in his kiss she could not name. It was bitter but so full of lust it nearly hurt. She felt her knees go weak and was about to sink down but his strong arms came up around her back, holding her safely. It was something different. The one second he was rough and within the blink of an eye he was so gentle with her. His demanding lips in sharp contrast to his hands, slowly stroking her back, telling her that  everything was fine and that she was safe with him. This only made her lust grow and she flung her arms around his neck, pulling herself against him even more, still trying to get closer. Her stomach dropped when he seemed to notice the almost burning loss of oxygen in her lungs and trailed kisses along her jawline, down to her neck.

"Clara?!"

Hearing her name made her draw back and she snapped back into reality. Sherlock must have had noticed her absence by now. She opened her eyes and looked up at Mycroft who was still holding her close, heavily panting, his eyes shut. Her hands still on his neck, she pulled him back down, resting their foreheads together. She could feel his razing pulse beneath her fingers and feared her own heart was about to explode.

"Clara, where are you?!"

She sighed and turned her head in the direction, Sherlock's voice had come from. He was about to find them soon for their parents' house wasn't the biggest. Her eyes went back up to Mycroft who was looking at her now. "Go", he whispered softly, still catching his breath. He looked tired, almost wrecked. This had been her.  Clara gently stroke his cheek and kissed him again briefly before she let go, turned and walked back around the corner, her right hand stretched out for the wall for hold, her legs still slightly trembling and her breath faltering.

When she was out of his sight, Mycroft closed his eyes and let himself sink against the wall with his hands. He let his head drop between his arms and remembered how to breathe. His arms were shaking, his lungs were burning as if he'd been running for miles, his eyes were burning and he'd got the feeling like someone had kicked him in the gut. The most powerful man in England took one last deep breath, whiffs of Clara's perfume still floating in the air in front of him before he straightened himself and left in the opposite direction. He reached the front of the house, searching for his lighter and cigarettes while walking. When Sherlock joined him several minutes later, he'd already had one, the obstrusive taste of tobacco covering the bitter-sweetest taste of his life.

 


	2. 2

„Pathetic".

Mycroft sighed when his brother stood next to him in the front garden. He didn't answer and hold out a cigarette for him which he gladly took. They smoked in silence for a while and Mycroft slowly felt himself calm down again. Knowing himself for not being a sentimental man he had not expected such a strong and disturbing reaction from his body and mind. Exhausted was not what could describe what he was feeling right now. But there was a feeling. The feeling of emptiness. He had not known what grief was. He had not known until he had left for Serbia, leaving her. She had grown a constance in his mind, not distracting him in the first place but making him vulnerable. There had hardly been a time when he had not thought of her, asking himself who she was with, what she was doing. Mycroft knew he was on the edge to madness and obsession. One touch from her and he would fall.

So, he had made up his mind on their flight back to stay away from her as much as possible. He could not afford to lose his mind, his everything, his elixir. England needed him. It would always be like this and he was quite content with that fact. He had never wanted anything else and now he was offered something he had never even hoped to gain. Something he had to forbid himself to have. He had dived deep, only to discover he was drowning.

„Are you really that blinded by sentiment or did you just have too much of the punch?"

Sherlock's voice pulled him back to the moment and he blinked at his brother, his brows knitted.

„I don't know what you're talking about."

The younger one snorted and puffed on his cigarette. „Oh, come on, Mycroft. It's obvious. Clara has hung on your every word since she came here, the shy glances she throws in your direction when she thinks you're not looking, the slight shock and anticipation when you look back, her moronic smile at you, the fact that she jumps only by hearing your voice. She's acting like a bloody schoolgirl around you." The youger paused and took a few puffs, blowing out the smoke into the cold air. „And you", he added. „You look different. When you think she can't see you".

The elder Holmes did not answer. There was no point in denying now. Sherlock knew anyway. Even though his brother obviously refused to understand Mycroft's reservation.

„When will you finally drop this subject, Sherlock?", he asked, his expression bored. The detective dropped his cigarette instead and stepped on it, his sharp gaze on his brother.

„Never", he stated. „Until you finally tell me what you're up to with her?"

„I told you-"

„Lie."

„Shut up, now!" He hadn't realised he was yelling until he saw her silhouette in the corner of his eye. Clara was standing in the door frame, one hand on the handle, the other placed against her collar bone uneasily. Her face changed from one second to the other. From insecurity to anger. She pulled the door closed and walked up to them, both silent now.

„What do you think you're doing?", she hissed. „Your parents are inside, trying their best to make it a wonderful evening, it's bloody Christmas and you've got nothing left to do than fighting? Seriously?!"

Before Sherlock could blame him all over again, Mycroft spoke.

„I believe this is none of your buisness", he said coldly and regretted it the moment her reaction spread across her features. - _Hurt. Rejection._

Without even looking at Sherlock, she turned to leave but stopped two steps later. „Fine", she said. „You know, you should be greatful that your mother is still alive and still able to cook you Christmas dinner". That, he had almost forgotten. Clara missed her mother especially on Christmas.

Mycroft made a few steps towards her. He could not let her leave like this, his brother completely forgotten. „I did not mean-"

„No, of course not! One's meaning everything one's saying, remember?" With that she walked insde and slammed the door shut behind her.

Mycroft closed his eyes with a sigh. Behind him, he could hear Sherlock chuckle.

„She just slammed the door in your face."

„Yes, Sherlock. I am aware", the politician answered tiredly.

Clara leant against the heavy wooden door with a sigh. How did that happen? Why was he always being so repellent? Why for God's sake had she fallen for a man who was changing like the seasons within a matter of seconds? One moment, they kissed, the next they were on each other's throats.

But she had found that she missed him. Since his left for Serbia, as she knew by now, she had walked the streets of London, looking around if a camera was moving behind her. It was still not okay what he had done but now she found herself almost whishing for the bad stuff to come back so she could have at least anything of him. If she could not have him, she would take their disputes and arguments and sometimes kissing. It still made her body shiver, the taste of his lips still on hers.

She knew he had probably fallen for her, she had realised it the night he had left officially after a fight with Sherlock in her appartement. The way he had kissed her temple, had held her for a while longer and had refused to look her in the eyes once more. He had not wanted to leave. It had been that he wanted to keep her this close, savouring this very moment, burn it into his soul, almost hoping for time to stand still. And she had felt the same way. Now it felt like they had never had a chance and probably it had to be so. How could she have ever imagined Mycroft Holmes would be easy to love?

„Everything okay, dear?" She heard Violet in the kitchen and swallowed against her dry throat. „Yes. Sorry, the wind was stronger than me".

Mr. Holmes senior came out of the living room and smiled at her. „Would you like a glass of punch, my dear?"

***********************************************************************************************************

„ _Don't fire on Sherlock Holmes!"_

He had killed him. Clara had been with John and Sherlock to face Magnussen. The fact that Sherlock had wanted to sell Mycroft's laptop had been shocking enough but Magnussen was way creepier than each one of them could have imagined. For the briefest moment Clara had thought about the possibility that he was an alien but it did not really matter. He was evil, cruel and vile. And Sherlock had shot him in the end.

All she could hear right now was her breath and all she could think about was Sherlock. He had killed someone. Something he had never intended to do. To protect John's and Mary's future.

They were escorted home, to 221B and Clara made some tea in the kitchen while telling Mrs. Hudson what had happened. The old lady started to cry and when Clara hugged her for comfort she couldn't help but cry as well. She expected Sherlock to say something, anything but he didn't. John was running around trying to call Mycroft, swearing over him and Magnussen and Mary didn't stop him. The landlady sat down on the couch next to the detective. She slid her hand beneath his arm and leant her head against his shoulder. Clara stood by the window looking out into the whirling flakes of snow. A part of her brain seemed to be shut down. She could not believe what just had happened. Sherlock was just back. And now he was going to leave again. But this time possibly forever.

Sherlock received a call from his brother two hours later, telling him that he had made a deal and that the younger one could stay at 221B until the holdiay was over. When he had ended the call, the detective was silent for a long time. „What?", John asked furiously. „What else did he say? Don't try to trick us, I can see there is something else!"

„There is indeed", Sherlock said, looking at Clara now. „I think he wants to see you". Her eyes widened. „Did he say so?", she asked but did not get an answer. There was a strange silence in the living room, neither one knew what to say, least of all Clara. „Let's get you a cab", Sherlock said coldly and stood, escorting her out the door and down the stairs. She didn't remember how she got down the stairs without falling over. Her legs felt weak. Sherlock opened the front door and ran outside, raising his arm for a cab. It stopped and he opened the door for her as if nothing had happened. Like he was not a murderer. But he was now. Before she got in she hesitated and looked up at him. He was smiling although he was close to tears. „Why are you doing this, Sherlock?" He swallowed and looked down just like the way his brother did when it came to emotions. When his gaze was on her again, she could tell that he was reading her. „Even though he would protest he shouldn't be alone tonight." She smiled gently. There it was. Sherlock loved his brother and cared for him just like Mycroft did. Crooking her head, she wondered what he had just told him on the phone. It must've been something terrible for Sherlock showed care for his brother. „He is not alright and neither are you", the detective stated. „For all I know he does enjoy your company. He needs you."

There was a warmth that spread across her stomach at his words. Clara remembered a time when she felt needed. With the Doctor, with Sherlock. And now, Mycroft needed her. And she needed to feel needed. Nodding, she realised that he would be fine, he had John, Mrs. Hudson and Mary. And hopefully he would have Molly, too. „Thank you", she said and began to shiver for she wasn't wearing a jacket and the snow kept on falling, several flakes landing in her hair covering her forehead. As she was about to get in, she heard his voice again: „You love him, don't you?", and stopped in her movement.

She thought it would be wise to protest but what did it matter? Why not just telling him the truth which he already knew? Turning back to him once more Clara let her head drop and smiled faintly. It was true. She was in love with the British government. The least expected of all. Wasn't it ironic? Sherlock placed a warm hand on her shoulder and caused her to look at him. „Just be careful. If it comes between you and his beloved country, he will choose the latter." It appeared to her that she should have been afraid by that warning. But she wasn't. Even if Mycroft would do so, he would do the right thing. He would always do the right thing. „Thank you", she said again and got inside the cab.

When she ringed the door bell, she was answered by him, looking outworn. He'd obviously been working until now, trying to get his idiotic brother out of his own created mess. Maybe that was the point. Mycroft would always run, hoping not to be late to save his brother. If that was the reason they would never be together, she would accept it. She understood now. Sherlock had wanted her to understand and get over her feelings for his brother in one move, of course the detective would not approve. The young woman slipped inside and closed the door. He was standing in front of her, blocking her path with his body. His hands were burrowed in his pockets, his suit jacket, tie and waistcoat off. He looked shattered. There were deep circles of worry beneath his eyes, his face was pale.

„I do not know why Sherlock sent you to me and it does not matter to me, either. If you should feel the need to leave then do it now. I will never touch you again, if that is what you wish. We both know that I have missed my chance long ago." He paused and Clara let him, feeling that he wasn't finished yet. Perhaps he would send her away now for his undevided attention was needed to solve Sherlock's problem. But how could she do as he asked when everything she wanted was to stay? She lowered her head like a child waiting for it's punishment. „But let me tell you", he continued, his voice suddenly changed. „For I despise Christmas, as you well know. This year it was actually...bearable." His fingers cupped her chin and lifted her face up to look at him. He had his mother's eyes, just like Sherlock. Clear, searching and asking. „This time I almost enjoyed it", he added, his voice a barely audible whisper.

It was wicked. Even if he had wanted to look away, he couldn't find the strength of dragging his eyes from hers. Those deep brown eyes, warming his soul and hypnotising him. Watching their pupils deliate until they were nothing but two dark pools of lust. Mycroft loved it and at the same time he felt guilt crawling through his veins. He did not want to feel guilty right now, she was way too close but still too far away. No matter how close he got, it was never enough. Completely focused on her eyes he did not realise when he'd started to thumb her lower lip. Her warm breath dissolved on his skin and Clara took a half step towards him for there was no more space left between them. It was his last chance to turn away, let her leave and save her from him but he couldn't. Feeling her heart beat against his chest, hearing her stuttering breath almost made him tremble and he felt his desire for her melting his mind away.

The next thing Mycroft knew was that he cupped her face in his hands while he was kissing her and she was kissing him. They stayed like this for he did not know how long, snogging each other senseless in the truest sense of the word. He could not think of anything but her. His vision was swimming.

The next time his senses flamed up once more, he found himself pinned against the wall by her, halfway up the stairs. She was left in her bra and skirt by that time and her fingers were busy undoing the buttons of his shirt. He felt her lips on his neck, his throat, his collarbone. Desire was runnig down his body, a heat he had not felt in years. The arousal was about to knock him out and he felt his mind slip when he brought his lips back to hers.

The next time their mouths came apart was when her legs hit the bed and she let herself sink down, pulling him with her. His stomach dropped and he could not hold back a moan. Mycroft pulled back to free her from her skirt as she finally shoved his shirt down his shoulders.

He let his mouth travel down her stomach, across her rips, the feel of her skin barely enough. His mind was busy catalogueing every inch of it. 

She pulled him back up to meet his lips with hers and he gladly gave in.

When they were both finally unwrapped she suddenly sat up and Mycroft moved back, not sure what she was doing. He then felt her soft fingertips on his shoulder, across the scar.

Clara pressed her lips against the small knot the bullet had left in his shoulder and felt him tremble. She could not help but smile, the idea that she could make him shiver made her feel proud. The man who was not supposed to feel anything giving into the needs of his body. The Ice man molten under her touch. She slowly kissed her way up his neck, surrounded by his rich scent. Her fingers were still stroking his shoulder. Above her on his knees, Mycroft had gone very still. Like a deer in front of a shotgun. It was not easy for him to show vulnerability. She wondered if he ever had. But for her this did not imply weakness, this scar was proof that he had saved her life, one year ago. When she looked at him she would see nothing but him: her saviour, her lover. Her other hand ran through the ginger hair on his chest, soothing him and he emitted something close to a purr before his hands were on her neck and he was kissing her deeply. She surrendered, every logical thought gone and defeated by lust. His hands fell to her hips, pulling her towards him until they were moulded together. Her eyes closed, she focused on what she felt. And she could feel everything! The soft skin of his stomach moving against hers, his heartbeat against hers, his hands traveling up and down her tighs, as she was straddling his lap.

Breaking the kiss, he pulled back to look at her. „Tell me", he ordered his voice rich and dark and she shivered above him.

„I-", she began but was knocked out of breath when he pulled her closer, his hands cubbing her buttocks.

„Tell me", he whispered against her lips and she almost came at the primeval male posessiveness he was showing now. That was it, she thought. The point where Mycroft Holmes was losing control and enjoying it. With her. Through her.

He shifted beneath her, pressing closer from underneath and she gasped: „Please".

The room was filled with his sighs and her delicate gasps. She'd thrown her head back in pleasure, his lips softly trailing along her neck. They moved together in a slow steady rythm, desire burning them alive. Mycroft hissed as they still got closer and her short nails gripped into the back of his shoulders, the pleasure almost too much to bear. He was panting, his heart was racing and he still wanted to get closer. How could he possibly find words for such an ecstasy? With each thrust she was meeting him, dragging him to the edge he was already balancing on. At some point he moved over, trapping her beneath him on the bed, her hair fanned across the sheets. He let his face drop and looked into her lustrous eyes which made him want her even more and she raised her chin, kissing him again. When they broke apart for air which they seemed to steal from each others lungs everytime their lips locked, he moved down, his mouth ghosting her breasts. If the world would end right now he would be more than ready to face it as long as he would get the last sound, the last taste, the last movement and the last feeling from her.

„I love you", she breathed, her hands on his neck. His eyes flew open and he almost froze in place but he stopped himself soon enough. He felt a hot rush moving through his chest, about to burn him from inside and did not find his breath for a second. He dragged his teeth across her collarbone, extracting another gasp from her as he moved up and kissed her hard, catching the soft sound that was his name.

Even though it was Christmas, Mycroft wished in that very moment that time would stop.

 

The End

Thanks for reading!


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